A Light Touch
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Just who teaches the agents all the skills they need to survive? Why Working Stiffs, of course. It takes a thief or rather a pickpocket to tell just who to pick a pocket or two.


There's an old saying that you can't be born to greatness; rather it's something you have to work for and towards. You might have a slight inclination of some talent when you are born and as you grow, but if it isn't seen early one and nurtured, well, it's often not fully realized.

Take me, for instance. I am a professional pickpocket and that's not something you go to school for, although I certainly honed my skills in grade school. Then my folks were killed in a car accident and I was made a ward of the state. As luck would have it, I ended up with a Fagan wannabe.

I'd always had a gentle touch, shall we say. When I was learning, I took more than my share of beatings or 'corrective discipline' as my guardian preferred to call it. Others might have broken them, but me, it just further my resolve to improve and escape from him.

By the time I reached high school, I could walk down any given corridor and when I got to the end of it, I'd have wallets, keys, bus passes, you name it. Usually I left everything where the owner could easily find it, but I would occasionally skim off a few bucks. Hey, I had needs, too.

High school came and went without much notice. I was an average student. I didn't play sports, didn't excel at anything in particular. I had bland brown hair, no accountable features of any sort, in short, no one ever seemed to notice me. That was a huge boon for my *um* career track. Once I hit 21, I broke all ties with my guardian and escaped to New York City.

I tended to work a couple streets in Manhattan, alternating them with Broadway and the Market. I never worked any place for too long. The greatest benefit in my business was not being recognized. It wasn't a bad living. It paid for a fairly decent apartment, my hours were my own and I never really wanted for anything. See, that's the key to being successful. By only taking what I needed to live, Karma seemed to turn the other way. If I picked a wallet with a huge payload, I'd skim a c note and return the rest. I never took or kept credit cards or jewelry. For me, it's was strictly cash in hand.

Things were going along okay. Nothing great, but nothing too awful. I was working one of my usual spots and I saw this little old guy. He was practically begging me to pick him, so I obliged. Who am I to turn down such an offer? Walking at a nice easy clip, I 'accidently' bumped into him and got a nice thick wallet for my efforts. Carefully I stowed it in my pants' pocket without even glancing at it.

That night I got home, sat down on my bed and dumped out my spoils. Immediately the old guy's wallet called to me. I grinned, but then the smile fades when I realized that there was nothing but blank paper in the billfold and a business card.

 _If you'd like an honest job, call me._ I dropped the wallet like it was a viper.

"What the hell?"

Then came the knock on the door. I like to nearly jump out of my skin. I dragged a blanket over the wallet and adjusted my clothes slightly.

"Yes?"

"You don't know me, Mr. Wallace, but you should."

Who knows why I opened the door. Normally, I'd have just gone out a window or something, but for whatever the reason, I cracked open the door. The little old guy was standing there, a smirk half hiding in his mustache.

"There's no Wallace here," I said, trying to close the door, but he was faster and strong for a man his age.

"Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs, Mr. Wallace. I've had my eye on you for quite some time and I think you are just exactly what we need."

"Whose we?"

"UNCLE."

"Whose uncle?"

Yeah, okay, so what did I know? I listened and the more he talked, the more hooked I got. A regular job, with the benefits and a steady paycheck. Attractive, especially since he said he'd turn me over to the cops if I refused. Yeah, like I said, what a deal. That's how I ended up working for UNCLE.

It might sound like quite a leap going from a professional pick pocket to teaching the art of it. It's not like I could really brag to anyone about it. Not even my parents knew what I did for a living, before or after my change of careers.

I met just about every sort of person there was at UNCLE. The agents, man, they ran from hot to cold and every variation in between. Most of them wanted to be super good at their job, mostly because, well, their lives depended upon it, but unlike learning how to shoot a gun or wrestle someone to the ground, being a pickpocket requires something more than just skill. It required a soft touch and the ability to hide in plain view.

Most of the guys had one or the other, but not both – take, for example Solo and Kuryakin. They were partners and the two top agents in Section Two. Neither were much to look at, but when it came to deadly, you didn't get much worse.

Solo had the soft touch, he joked that it comes from all his female conquests, but I'm not so sure. He was a touchy feely sort of guy and that helped. However, he exuded confidence and when he walked into the room, your eye went to him.

Kuryakin, on the other hand, could make himself invisible in the wink of an eye. He wouldn't move a muscle, but suddenly he was just not there. As for the other…

It was class and I asked for a volunteer. After some good natured ribbing, Kuryakin got to his feet and approached me. I shook his hand and turned back to the class, holding up a wallet.

"And this is how it's…" That when I realized it was my own wallet. "How did you do that?"

Kuryakin just grinned. "You tell me."

As they say, it was the start of a beautiful friendship and I think Solo was a little jealous of me, but it wasn't like I was a threat to their partnership or anything.

It was one of those cold rainy spring nights, the kind that made New York seem like a hostile unforgiving place. Worse when one of our own was missing. Illya hadn't reported back from his mission. I prayed that it was just a blip and he'd soon be with us again. He had a way of turning up just when you'd given up hope. Fingers crossed that this would be one of those times.

 _Spring flowers my ass,_ I thought as I dashed into a bar close to work. With any luck, it would ease up enough for me to get to the subway. Letting my eye grow accustomed to the light, I was startled to see Solo sitting at a table. It was tucked away in a corner, safe from anything other than a front approach. I hesitated as we weren't exactly bosom buddies, but he saw me and gestured me over.

"Hey, Luke." He pushed a chair in my direction and I sat. There was a glass in front of him and the scotch in it was a watery yellow, diluted down from the melted ice.

"Napoleon." Outside of work, first names worked. Inside that big concrete bunker, it was much more formal. The waitress came over and I ordered whatever was on tab and another drink for Napoleon, sending the pathetic remains of his away.

We sat quietly for a few minutes until the drinks arrived, along with a bowl of nuts. I lifted my glass. "To his safe return."

"Yes." Napoleon's glass remained untouched.

"He'll be okay, Napoleon."

He smiled, but it was an empty, ugly thing. "Yeah, I know…"

"But?"

"We had... words."

It wasn't words. From what I'd heard, they'd nearly come to blows. It had been a hot topic all week and then this happened. Everyone who'd wagged their tongues had grown strangely quiet.

"And you feel guilty about what you said." His head bobbed once. "Let me tell you a story, Napoleon. I've done some shady stuff in the past, which given my line of work, is a given. Once I lifted an envelope out of this guy's pocket. It had several thousand dollars in it and they ended up fishing him out of the East River. I'm pretty sure he was killed because he'd lost that money."

"What did you do?"

"Sent it to a kids' hospital as an anonymous donation. It tore me up for a long time."

"But not enough to stop." The smile was a bit less haunted now.

I finished my beer. "Nope. Life is funny that way."

"And the purpose of this story?"

"Crap happens, my friend. Pure and simple, but if something good comes out of it, maybe it's worth the crap."

"What about karma?"

Then I grinned. "You? Napoleon Solo believe in karma?" I waved my hand at the bartender and lifted my empty mug. "I don't buy that for a minute. Besides with all the good you have done, I don't think one blow up with your partner will do any more than a blip in Karma's radar."

Something told me there was more to the disagreement than anyone knew, but I wasn't going to push. My beer arrived and this time he did return my silent toast.

Then there was a shill sort of _beep beep_ and he went for his jacket, except I was holding his communicator. He scowled and took it from me. I grinned and watched him go through the motions.

"Solo here."

"Napoleon?"

"Illya? Where are you?"

"Long story. Listen, I'm stranded on Long Island…"

I tuned him out then and returned to my beer.

"Luke, you want come with me?" Napoleon asked as he stood.

"Sure." I was sure he could see my confusion and he offered me a smile, charming and warm.

"I need some back up. That wasn't Illya."

"What?" I leapt to my feet. "But…"

"It sounded like him… sort of. I just know that it wasn't and time is of the essence here." He paused. "Do you have a car?"

I did and within minutes we were hightailing it to Long Island, using the communicator as a homing device. Napoleon put in a call to HQ requesting backup as I weaved my car back and forth. It was a miracle that we weren't pulled over.

The signal led us to an industrial park, abandoned by the look of it. That never made sense to me, considering the price of real estate there. I pulled over and waited while Napoleon looked around. It was amazing how he just seemingly vanished into midair.

I was just starting to worry when he returned just as abruptly as he left.

"Okay, I've spotted where they are likely to be roosting."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry. Force of habit." He patted my shoulder and sort of spun me around. "Over there. Let's go."

I thought the contact odd, but I'd heard that Solo was a touchy feely sort of guy. It wasn't until the THRUSH who captured me and pulled Napoleon's ID out of my pocket that made me realize I'd been handed over to the wolves as bait.

Strangely enough, I didn't mind. It was the first time I'd been duped like that. I raised my hands slowly.

"My bosses are going to have a good time with you, Solo." The THRUSH guy looked so happy that I didn't bother to point out that Solo and I had very little in common besides both being male and working for UNCLE.

I was led through a series of corridors until I didn't know which way was up or down, left of right. We stopped in front of a guarded door.

"Who you got there, Jay Jay?" The speaker was identical to my captor. Obviously, they were related.

"Read 'em and weep. You're lookin' at my guaranteed promotion, Jim John." Jay Jay's chest swelled. "I caught Napoleon Solo."

"What? That's not Solo."

"It is, too. He's got an ID card and everything."

"Solo has dark hair. This guy's almost blond. And he's a lot taller than Solo." I was, but didn't say anything.

"No!" Jay Jay's faith was a little flattering. "This here's Napoleon Solo!" He pointed his weapon at my stomach. "Tell him."

"Sorry, I'm Napoleon Solo."

None of us heard him approaching and I'm not sure who was the most surprised. Within a breath, both guards were down and out on the floor and I was struggling to stay upright. The air seemed sweet, inviting me to breathe deep

"You okay, Luke?" Napoleon's arm was around my waist in a flash. "Try not to breathe too much."

I wanted to yell, to punch him, to make him know just how I felt. Instead I nodded and worked on not passing out. Napoleon lowered me to the floor and walked over to a door.

"Illya?"

"About time. What were you doing?" There was no mistaking Illya's very annoyed voice. "You're out sleeping with half the women in Manhattan and I'm busy bleeding everywhere."

He considered it for a moment, then fiddled with the button on his coat. It came free, trailing thread and Napoleon wrapped it around the knob. "I'm blowing the door."

He triggered it with his watch and turned away a split second before the flash. I was amazed at how quiet it was.

He pushed the damaged door aside and disappeared inside. A moment later, he appeared, supporting Illya. He looked at me and I stood up and took the other side. Illya looked at me, a little confused.

"Hey, Luke, what are you doing here?"

I gave him a grin. "Practicing what I preach."

We got out of the building just as UNCLE arrived. I was hustled into a sedan and the next thing I remember was waking up in Medical.

I sat up in bed, more than a little confused. I was about to climb out when the door opened and Napoleon stuck his head in.

"Oh, good, you are awake."

"What's going on?"

"I thought an explanation was in order. And an apology." Napoleon pulled up a visitor's chair and sat down. "First. I'm sorry, but I knew if they captured me, the chance of my being able to rescue us was minimal. That's why I planted my ID on you."

"You planned it back in the bar."

"I did," he admitted with a smile. "I was hoping whoever was behind Illya's kidnapping wouldn't immediately know the difference."

"And we led you right to Illya."

"Yes."

"He's okay?"

"He's beat up a bit, but he'll be fine." Napoleon smiled. "That Russian bounces pretty well. Thank you for helping me save him."

"Right person, right time."

"More than that. If you hadn't taught me how to pick pocket, well, it might not have ended the way it did."

All's well and all that, though. Napoleon was right. Illya was back at it within the week and off giving other THRUSH what for. Me, I happily went back to my classroom and my new batch of agents. Sure, it isn't the most stellar of careers, but I wouldn't change it for a minute. Not when I know that what I teach can mean the difference between life and death. How great is that?


End file.
